


dying blooms

by hyuckleberryfinn



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-06-24 03:05:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19714975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyuckleberryfinn/pseuds/hyuckleberryfinn
Summary: “You took one of my flowers.” His voice is soft, fingers tracing the edge of a petal. “You cannot go back. You belong t-”His fingers still, and a look passes over his face. Donghyuck can’t place that look.Mark gently curls Donghyuck’s fingers over the flower again. “You belong here now,” he says, gaze finally resting back on Donghyuck’s face and it’skind.





	1. asphodel

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably going to be a very quick one, and I swear I will finish! unbeta'd as usual.  
> Honestly none of these are the alignments I would have for NCT but it worked for writing this.

It’s startling, the white flower. A white  _ narcissus _ , in fall _? _ In the middle of the clearing, so pale and almost glowing, leeching away colour around it. A pallid, ethereal looking thing.

It’s the third day of the Thesmopheria, and his father’s acolytes are gathering the last flowers blooming in the dying heat of fall, celebrating the planting of the second harvest. There are celebrations all over the world for Doyoung, but the best is on Mount Olympus. 

All the gods are feasting and getting drunk from hundreds of different ambrosias and elixirs, but Donghyuck always prefers to spend his time down here with the humans. 

It’s fun, shrouding himself in the appearance of mortality and mingling in the scent of fleeting life. He doesn’t always do the best job of hiding his immortality, he knows, with the way the mortals seem to congregate around him anyways. But he tries his best and as long as his skin doesn’t glow with the light of godhood, who could complain? The mortals are always much too enchanted with him to. Maybe his fathers would. 

(Doyoung would glare and frown at him if he ever saw him play with the mortals, but all he ever, ever did was hug his son much too tight. A suffocating embrace was the extent of his punishment for his beloved light of a son, and that is maybe why Donghyuck grew wilder then the vines that crept over every inch of the God of the Harvests’ temple. 

Taeyong would do much more than frown. But the Allfather is too busy holding on to his power and dominion over all, to worry about an errant godchild.)

So Donghyuck joins the flower picking this day, the temple priests and priestesses making merry with wine and grapes and bread that is passed around and around, giggling and people tripping as they separate the flowers from his fathers’ plants, trees and grasses. 

And he makes merry too and doesn’t realise that his path diverges from the others subtly, nor the growing faintness of the mortals’ laughter petering to silence.

And then he sees the narcissus. Completely colourless, even the leaves and stem a greyed-green. Of all the living flora that bloomed from his father’s imagination, he had never seen anything like this. 

Which should have been a fair warning. But Donghyuck had never needed to fear warnings or feel anything other than love and warmth in the charmed existence he had led led since Doyoung formed him from leaves and branches and flowers and mud and Taeyong sparked his veins full of immortality and light.

He was just fascinated.

(There were laws that governed even the Gods. Give and take. Or, take and be punished, especially when you stole from another’s dominion. And the greater the dominion, the greater the power, and perhaps that was the true law that governed the Gods and the mortals. After all, what dominion could be greater than that over the living, the dominion of Taeyong, the Allfather? Whatever he wanted he would have, his right ever since he overthrew his father to rule, and it was lucky for all living things that he wanted very rarely. 

But he had fought for that right with his siblings. His powerful brothers had helped turn the tide. And for that, what did they receive? Jaehyun given dominion over the seas and the ocean, content with just the vast breadth of it and the lack of clamouring mortals to bother him with their wants and needs. 

Then Mark. The oldest by order of birth but the youngest by breaths taken, disgorged from his father’s stomach the last. He was tricked into the dominion of the dead by his siblings and he swallowed his pride and his bitterness because he very rarely wanted, even less than Taeyong. But he was perhaps the most powerful of all, after all, his dominion endless and always growing.

His brothers and sisters had forgotten that. But he had not.

So when he finally wanted, he planted a seed. And he took.)

Donghyuck, foolish godchild, picked the narcissus, only to discover it was not a narcissus at all. _ Asphodel _ . Cold like ice. Cold like death. And time slowed down as the earth split open around Donghyuck and the dark chariot arose from the crack, dew freezing on the grass around. And Mark stood there, dark and terrible, skin paler than the moon and hair darker than the night sky. His icy hands clasped around Donghyuck’s, crumpling the deathflower, and he pulled him into the chariot, pulled him down into the ground. Stealing him into the underworld within the space of a breath.

The ground healed again, Gaia’s last favour to her unfavoured son.

Donghyuck, god of summer was gone without a trace.

Truth is, Donghyuck had never even considered to fight. He had never fought in his life, never had to, not being the favoured son of Olympus and why would he want to? 

He knew, as soon as he picked the flower that something was wrong. He knew when he saw Mark rising from the ground that things were about to inevitably change but the truth was…. The truth was? 

He was curious.

(Pandora would have some words for him, about the dangers of curiosity. A little too late for Donghyuck of course. Those words would be spoken in the Asphodel Meadows, and they were both already stuck by their actions and inactions.)

He also had never felt fear before, or anything more negative than anger and mischief. He did not know what his heart racing meant, but he did feel it. He later learnt what fear would mean. 

But he is pulled into Mark and the chill from the god of the dead sinks into Donghyuck’s bones and he has never felt anything like this before. So he doesn’t fight, out of shock or surprise or just the novelty of the cold. And when he looks at Mark’s face-

_ (and he knows this must be Mark because even if the god of the death has not ventured out of the underworld in nearly a millenia, who else could it be?), _

-he looks at Mark’s face and meets his cold, dark eyes. And it’s like a lightning bolt down Donghyuck’s spine, like one of Taeyong’s but burning cold, and Donghyuck  _ looks away _ .

So he doesn’t fight, not on his way down. He doesn’t fight when they cross the black gurgling foulness of the River Styx, boatman Taeil dismissing Donghyuck without a second glance. He doesn’t even fight as they pass by Cerberus, housed in the great cavern at the entrance to the underworld, the giant monstrous canine whimpering down as their master walks past. 

The cold hands of the dead reach out to touch Donghyuck he passes by them to follow Mark to the Palace of the Underworld, dark shining obsidian rising from the stony, dead ground. The earth roofing the underworld is so far above as to not be seen at all and it appears more like a starless night. Donghyuck shivers to see it. It’s all so strange, so foreign, like the planets Yangyang keeps talking about visiting on his winged sandals. But this world was under his feet the whole time, and the man holding onto his hand was living here, and Donghyuck never even thought to wonder.

Mark doesn’t look at him, not once, not after meeting his gaze on the chariot. That’s also probably why Donghyuck doesn’t fight. 

He is so, so, curious.

Mark finally lets go of his hand once they are in the palace, and Donghyuck snatches it back to his chest, fingers freezing and blue with lack of circulation. And he watches silently as Mark pulls off his heavy velvet cloak, handing it to one of the shades who flitter through the hall and Donghyuck measures the taut line of his shoulders and realises-

‘Are you really not going to speak a word to me?’ he asks, incredulously, voice coming out breathier, and yet screechier, than he would like. 

(Understandably so. Donghyuck has rarely ever been so silent in his life.)

Mark stops at the foot of one of the stairs that curve up around the walls of the antechamber. His hand grips the rail tightly, possibly even growing a paler white. Donghyuck watches carefully as the god of the Underworld slowly turns around, his shoulders hunching a little, head stooping away from Donghyuck. It reminds him of the deer that Renjun so loves to hunt. As Mark steadily refuses to meet his gaze, he realises two things.

Firstly, that the Lord of the Dead is a bit awkward. And second, that he is… ashamed.

It breaks the shock a little and something close to anger, but probably more like bewilderment, creeps through Donghyuck. A bit of outrage bubbling through. 

“This is a lovely visit, truly. But I’d like to know what’s going on.” Donghyuck is very good at mimicking the tone Doyoung likes to take with him when he is angry (like when Donghyuck has let the cacti drown or talked Jaemin's plant into carnivorism) and he sees Mark wince slightly at it, mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for water. His tone grows more strident. “If you have nothing to say, I think I’ll go home.”

That seems to snap Mark to attention, and he finally turns to look at Donghyuck and the breath is stolen right out of Donghyuck’s chest like he was thrown into a bath of ice.

Mark is all angles and planes and cheekbones, pale like marble, and his eyes are a dark liquid black and it’s all a bit overwhelming and Donghyuck has to look away so he can breath again.

How embarrassing. He hasn’t felt that way in a long time and he grew up with Jaemin.

“You can’t go back.” Mark’s voice is deep and soothing and it wraps around Donghyuck like a caress. And then the words finally penetrate through and Donghyuck whips his gaze back up, unbalanced. Mark’s gaze was unyielding.

“I’m the son of the Allfather and the god of nature. I don’t think you get to decide that,” Donghyuck replies, shakily, finally shivering from the chill. Mark’s eyes soften, and Donghyuck has trouble placing the emotion because it has never been directed at him before.

Pity. That’s what it was.

Mark starts towards him and suddenly it’s Donghyuck who is the deer being stalked. It takes every inch of Donghyuck’s pride not to cower or step back, thoroughly intimidated. Then Mark reaches out to him and he can’t stop himself from flinching and Mark must notice it because his hand falters, just a little. He pulls Donghyuck’s hand out from where he had been clutching it to his chest, fingers cold but gentle as they open up the fist. _ The asphodel _ . 

“You took one of my flowers.” His voice is soft, fingers tracing the edge of a petal. “You cannot go back. You belong t-”

His fingers still, and a look passes over his face. Donghyuck can’t place that look. 

Mark gently curls Donghyuck’s fingers over the flower again. “You belong here now,” he says, gaze finally resting back on Donghyuck’s face and it’s  _ kind _ .

Cold dread trickles down Donghyuck’s spine. 

“You can’t keep me here,” he replies, voice soft with fear.

“You are in the Underworld now,” Mark says firmly, mouth quirking up at the corners bittersweet. “Only _ I  _ have power here.”

Oh, but, the finality of it.

Donghyuck runs.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who Jaemin's supposed to be hehe  
> 5 points for whoever guesses the 00line correctly!  
> [twt](https://twitter.com/hyucklesberry)/[cc](https://curiouscat.me/hyucklesberry)


	2. lotus fruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You took one of my flowers.” His voice is soft, fingers tracing the edge of a petal. “You cannot go back. You belong t-”
> 
> His fingers still, and a look passes over his face. Donghyuck can’t place that look.
> 
> Mark gently curls Donghyuck’s fingers over the flower again. “You belong here now,” he says, gaze finally resting back on Donghyuck’s face and it’s kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha i said this was going to be a very quick one hahahaha

It became quite clear, after several days in the underworld, there was nowhere to run to.

Donghyuck wandered and he wondered. The heavy twilight that permeated the place never ebbed, seemed to drain the colour around him into a hazy grey of despair. He could feel the effects of it on himself, already, the obsidian glass in his room showing him the way the warmth leeched out of his skin and his hair, like a fine layer of ash had settled over him. 

The spirits don’t bother him now. They pass him as they await judgment, and they know to leave him a wide berth. 

(A few had come to grasp him, that first day he ran out of the palace, chest heaving in panic. It had become overwhelming, quickly they way they beseeched him, hands and faces and pleading eyes wanting and _wanting_ , and they only fell back when Mark had come up and barked out “ _Enough!_ ”. 

Mark’s hand had come up to Donghyuck’s face to check on him. Donghyuck had spat in his face. 

He didn’t try again.)

The God of the Underworld hides from him. (The spitting may have been partially to do with it.) Instead the shades that serve him around the palace, the same ones who shepherded the dead to their final destinations, followed Donghyuck from a distance as he roamed where he could. He could feel their master’s eye on him, but when he looked back towards the palace, all he would see was haze and more haze. He knew that Mark watched, though. And when Donghyuck would take a step too far, they would come around to barricade him around him at their master’s request. Especially from Cerberus. 

_Shame_ , Donghyuck thought, steel running through his veins. He was very good with dogs.

The most interesting part of the Underworld for him was the dead garden that surrounded palace, blackened branches and withered trees. They were old, impossibly old, possibly older than him. They did not speak to him, they did not sway towards him, they just stood there, lifeless, but Donghyuck felt a thrum of _something_ underneath bark. And he wondered at the god who would try to grow life in the land of the dead.

“Where is he, my darlings?” Doyoung whispers to the roses. He whispers to the oaks. He whispers to the cypress. “Where is my son?”

They rustle back; _we don’t know, we don’t know_. Doyoung scoffs.

They were always so protective of him. When Doyoung had come around to collect seeds and stems, roots and bark, leaves and petals, to make Donghyuck, they had whispered incredulously, all questions and mild ire. They did not give parts of themselves up lightly. But when Donghyuck drew in his first breath, they all reached out to him, sighing. _Brother._ They always shielded him. Him and his friends, whenever they would go missing on one of their escapades, never divulging a thing, not even to their shared father. It was part of the reason why Donghyuck grew wild, ( _in part),_ Taeyong had said, and Doyoung had privately agreed. 

That’s why they didn’t divulge his whereabouts, Doyoung mused. There was no other reason for it.

Doyoung can wait. Donghyuck always came back. 

“I see what my brother was talking about,” a smooth, light voice whispered from behind Mark. It’s a voice all have heard, in the deepest hours of the night. Mark didn’t have to turn around to know the God of Dreams was starting to materialise out of thin air. A pale hand reached out to rest next to the railing of the balcony, as Jungwoo came to lean against it, watching the little godling try to escape into Cerberus’s lair. Again

It was almost sweet, Mark thought. This was the fifth attempt. It would be amusing to see his face when he found that all he would have to say was _please_ and the shades would stand aside but it appeared gods rarely learnt manners. Few people, Mark had found, did.

Still. It stung. He would not come into the palace. He avoided Mark completely. He _spat_ in Mark’s face.

(The golden-haired boy god had asked Mark why he had been brought down to the land of the dead and Mark was unable to form the words “ _to be my consort_.” Maybe he the one who was avoiding the other. Perhaps he had earned it.)

“You said of all those above ground, he would be most suited to being here,” Mark accused, turning to glare at Jungwoo.

“He is. He dreams of decay and decomposition, of the best blood and bone for the ground, for his garden to thrive. He is _obsessed_ with death. I don’t know if Doyoung made him that way on purpose or not,” Jungwoo muses softly, before meeting Mark’s gaze back directly. “That never meant that he would agree to be your consort.” 

Mark’s mouth twists. “Is there anyone who would?” 

“I don’t know, Mark. But usually people respond better to gentle wooing as opposed to outright godnapping,” Jungwoo chides gently. His gaze narrows. “Did you even think this through?”

Jungwoo had only gained tangible form barely a few thousand years ago, not much older than Donghyuck, much younger than Mark. Yet Mark feels younger than either of them. 

Because he had not.

It wasn’t planned by any means. He had meant to attend Olympus, as was his right, for the Thesmpospheria. As was his right for any celebration they held. And as he did for any celebration, he had turned back half-way, shame crawling over his skin as it always did. Who would want the God of Death at a celebration. Who would want the God of Death anywhere, really? And then by absolute chance, he had come across him, fraternising with the mortals, laughing and delighting himself as they ran through the godswoods, celebrating.

It was clear they were all drawn to him, and it might’ve been due to the immortality he was trying to hide badly, but more than anything, it was due to his personality, even Mark could grasp that. Laughter seemed to follow him, from the humans, and to the flowers and leaves that shivered, giggling in his presence. It was enchanting. He was enchanting.

Mark was enchanted.

So no, he didn’t really think. He just planted the asphodel. That was that. And here was Donghyuck, eternal child of summer, in the Underworld. For all appearances, possibly attempting suicide by three-headed beast. 

“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” Mark replies, softly.

Jungwoo exhales delicately. “A son of nature, now surrounded by the dead. If you want this to be a home, make this a home, Mark.”

Mark’s hands grip the railing. “A home. Like his home above? I have nothing to offer him, Jungwoo.”

“Then send him back up.”

His grip on the railings tighten. “I can’t.” It’s odd. An odd bubbling panic, deep in Mark’s chest. He hasn’t felt anything like it in millenia. “I don’t know how.”

Jungwoo’s gaze does not change in its pity. “I’m fairly young as a god, I know. But I have been around in some form since life began to think and dream. I remember you. So many do. ” His gaze focuses back on Mark, and the smile grows sweet. “You are Lord of the Dead but _you_ are not dead. You were warm once, Minhyung. Remember that,” he says, looking down at the god below. “You’ll need it”.

The dead garden haunted Donghyuck. Dead things, dark things, they had a tendency to do so (Doyoung would always have something to say on his particular leanings) but still. He had no idea why the Lord of the Underworld would try to grow a garden, amidst all this despair. 

Some of the trees were so old that he was unable to say what species they were, something his father had created and discarded before Donghyuck was even a gleam in his father’s eyes. It was strange to think of a time before himself, but this was a reminder of it. 

Something snaps to his right, and Donghyuck pulls his hand back from the branch, stiffening as he turns around.

The first thought, _the god of the dead should not be sheepish._

Mark is some distance away, every line in his body indicating hesitance. Or fear. 

(Maybe the spitting was too much.)

Donghyuck feels his patience thin to a hair-fine strand. He crosses his arms forbiddingly.

He can see Mark steel himself, just a little, as his eyes wander to Donghyuck’s face, and whatever he must see there... _Well_. 

Mark opens his mouth and for a moment-

-Nothing.

Then- “That’s a pomegranate tree.”

Donghyuck is utterly derailed, to his everlasting shame. “What’s a pomegranate?” He asks.

Mark’s hand comes up to hold onto a branch, grip adjusting, and he then meets Donghyuck’s eyes again. “A fruit. Filled with ruby red seeds.”

A number of words spring to Donghyuck’s lips, but he lets them go. Mark is so nervous, it would be almost endearing, if not for the fact that he had dragged Donghyuck down to this place. He tries to keep his voice gentle, like Renjun does when he has to lure out the white doe at every Great Hunt, right before he shoots her through the throat. “Why am I here?”

There it is again, Donghyuck wasn’t wrong. A flash of fear. But what could Mark fear? His hand tightens on the branch, and a soft wave of cold emanates from him again. “I need… I need-” he trails off, looking a little lost, as his gaze flitted around to anything that wasn’t Donghyuck.

Donghyuck waits.

“-help.” Mark’s voice is so quiet, Donghyuck almost doesn’t hear it.

“Help?” Donghyuck asks, disbelief colouring his face.

“With this,” Mark replies, waving his hand at the dead garden, eyes not meeting Donghyuck’s gaze, again.

“You brought me down here… to be your gardener?” Donghyuck asks, voice a delicate warning. 

_You're not a very good liar, are you,_ Mark? He fidgets, and then nods and, _gods_ , maybe it is endearing. 

And maybe Donghyuck should be more careful, more resistant, but it’s that. The curiosity again. It licks up Donghyuck’s spine as he peers at Mark, and he wonders, and it’s always been his failing but-

“Okay.” 

Mark looks up in shock, and it’s very sweet, _he looks so much younger than he should_ , Donghyuck thinks.

“I help you grow this garden again, and then I go back home,” Donghyuck says, using the same sweet smile Jeno uses before he pummels his opponents to the ground.

Mark blinks quickly, and then nods jerkily, and, _heavens, you are_ such _a terrible liar_. It doesn’t matter. 

Donghyuck is going home, one way or another.

It’s difficult at the beginning. Mark thinks, _hopes,_ that spending time, like Jungwoo had said, would be enough. 

It takes time for the plants to even start living again, even under Donghyuck’s careful ministrations. The grass comes first but then, when Mark steps too close-

“-OUT!” Donghyuck screeches, shrill, running his fingers over the grass withering to brown, curling inwards.

“My apologies,” Mark rasps out, as he backs away, and he tries not to shake too hard at the look of utter distaste Donghyuck throws his way.

And he tries hard to control it. He doesn’t even remember how long the emptiness has been there, spilling out of him, like a dying star. He doesn’t remember when it began. It’s just been so long since he’s had any reason to control it, he doesn’t remember what it felt like. 

He would like to reach out to touch Donghyuck without seeing the goosebumps mar his skin, as pretty as it looked.

It’s not so much of a surprise then, when Ten visits. 

It _is_ a surprise that he doesn’t visit Mark first. 

He doesn’t even know, with him still giving the garden a wide berth, and it’s only when Taeil mentions it to him slyly that he whips his head around to look at the boatman. Taeil just shrugs and goes to head back to ferry the next lot of souls, and Mark is a little thankful and a little grateful.

He’s careful to avoid the area that Donghyuck was working in, and he’s always so quiet that they don’t hear him at first. They’re both kneeling down, Donghyuck’s hair now a bright shining silver-grey, and Ten’s an oily black.

“And this one, your father _hated_. Delicious and utterly addictive fruit, so much so that those who would eat them would die rather than be parted from the tree. They would wither away at the roots and their bodies would be reborn as fruits from the tree itself. Wonderful, isn’t it?” 

“Horrifying. And father made it for you? Gods’ know, I would never have thought that he was capable of being that interesting,” Donghyuck remarks, shooting Ten a sharp grin. Ten grins back, just as sharp, and more than a little delighted, and the danger of it all makes Mark take more steps forward than he means to, and the lotus plum suffers for it. 

Donghyuck lets out a sharp exhale as he watches the leaves wither on the branch and turns around to glare at him. “You.”

 _Not this again_. Mark stutters out a meek apology. He’s getting tired of it, but not as much as Donghyuck is, with that glint in his eyes. 

He’s tired of not being able to spend time with the god he is to _woo_ , as Jungwoo has so put it.

He then notices Ten glancing between the both of them, an odd smile on his face, eyes calculating as they always do. But he waves and Mark waves back. 

“A little bird told me you were having some _issues_ , Mark,” Ten calls out, mirth sparkling under his voice.

“Jungwoo is not very little,” Mark replies back dryly. “But I would appreciate the help.”

Ten’s smile is kinder, eyes crinkling, as he stands up. He turns to Donghyuck, who also stands up a little shyly. “I’ll leave you to your work,” Ten says, and embraces the younger god, and Mark notices something nameless flicker across his face as he pulls away, a certain _uncertainty_. He takes note.

Ten is uncharacteristically silent on their walk back to Mark’s study, clearly thinking hard, and Mark doesn’t think it’s all about his current predicament. He knows better than to ask. If the god of witchcraft and the night wished to divulge secrets, it was only ever of his own accord.

“He suits this place better than expected,” Ten remarks, finally, and Mark has to agree. The silver made Donghyuck glow in the pallid light of the underworld. It was hard to look away at times.

“I would like to spend time with him, Ten,” Mark replies, “But I don’t know how.” He stares down at his hands in front of him, white like marble. It had been so long since they felt anything running through him other than ice.

Ten smiles at him fondly. “When we choose to represent something, it’s usually because something in our nature calls to it. But then it remakes us, in return. Death is cold and isolated because you believe it to be, Mark. And as so _,_ have you become this.”

“I don’t remember feeling any differently,” Mark replies, a little hollowly.

Ten slowly gathers Mark’s hand in his. “I know you were in our father’s stomach the longest, and alone. But you were not always.” He presses something into his hand, sharp and _warm_.

“Wear this and remember the warmth of those of us who love you dearly, Mark,” Ten says simply, pulling his head down to kiss his forehead. Mark opens his hand to find a gold pendant in the shape of a dog hanging off a cord of hemp, reminiscent of Cerberus, or at least his left head. “Some of us above ground miss you deeply.”

Mark stays characteristically silent. But he wraps the cord around his neck, the warmth seeping through slowly from it, sinking into his chest. He nods shortly at Ten, and Ten pats his cheek in response.

“Speaking of Olympus, I think I have someone I need to visit.” Ten’s expression flickers to something else, and he looks back in the general direction of the garden. Mark notes it again, but then Ten turns back to him, smile turning sharply wicked. “And you have someone to seduce, so, _go,”_ He says pushing Mark forward, making him stumble. And when Mark turns around, the god of magic is gone without a trace.

So he goes. 

They keep dying on him. The new type of posey, they bloom only for short moments before unravelling completely, giving up on all will to exist. 

It’s fairly easy to see why. Doyoung’s heart is not all here. It’s where his son is, wherever that might be, and all that has replaced it in his chest is fret and worry. 

_It’s not like this hasn’t happened before_ , Doyoung whispers to the knot of anxiety that has taken place where his heart is, and then he whispers to the beeches and the willows, who rustle back at him, concerned.

 _If Donghyuck were here he’d wheedle them into living._ He had a touch with his siblings. Instead, the poseys just keep dying.

“Not having much luck here, are you?” A voice calls out, soft and yet sharp at the same time. It’s been years since he has had to hear that voice.

(It was never meant to work. They argued too much, fought too much, felt too much, and then felt nothing at all.)

Doyoung pauses, neck prickling. “Ten. I’ve missed you.”

“Don’t lie. You’re awful at it,” Ten says, kneeling down, hands fluttering over the posies. Delicate hands, strong hands. Doyoung realises the tension running through his body, and unclenches his jaw.

(Maybe Doyoung missed the partnership, the creation of something new, with someone else-

No, no. Dangerous waters.)

“After we… parted,” Ten begins, delicately, “I never did ask you what you did with all the plants we created.”

“I destroyed them.” Doyoung’s tone was carefully blank.

(Destroyed was one way of putting it. He had torn out every associated tree, every weed, every flower, out by its roots in the master garden, their progeny outside of Mount Olympus dying in an instant. 

They stunk of Ten’s essence. It had pleased him to realise that Ten would have felt their deaths too.

And then in his loneliness he had shredded them down to make-)

Doyoung’s hands scramble in the present in the dirt, and his mind whirls as he looks at the witch-god beside him.

There is a moment of clarity as Doyoung realises that Ten knows what he has done. 

Ten’s eyes are as merciless as his voice is sickly sweet. “I hear your son is missing.”

Doyoung’s hand snaps out to grip Ten’s arm in a vice. “Was it you? Did you take him?” 

“What reason would I have to take him, Doyoung?” The smile leaves Ten’s face finally, his tone pointedly bitter. 

Doyoung’s tone is anguished. “Please. Tell me where he is.”

Ten’s mouth is bitter as ever, but as firm as his hands are as they break Doyoung’s grip, they are also gentle. “I did not take him, Doyoung,” and the truth rings clear in his eyes.

“But where he is right now, you cannot follow.”

He leaves Doyoung kneeling in his garden, just like that, at a loss.

He doesn’t know how he first realises it. The lotus tree was difficult and tricky, needing reassurance and cajoling like none other. Donghyuck adored it. But it only grew leaves on one branch, the others drooping sadly to the ground. 

He is so involved that he doesn’t even recognise his neck prickling with awareness, not initially.

And then-

Mark jumps a little, when Donghyuck turns around, a sheepish expression crossing his face. And Donghyuck is about to hiss at him to leave when he realises. The prickling sensation wasn’t from a deathly chill, and his plants weren’t dying.

He draws in a shaky breath. He has so many questions to ask, so much to still understand about this god in front of him, but-

“Get a shovel,” he barks out abruptly. And Mark does, compliant as anything.

Maybe it turns Donghyuck’s head a bit, in the days to follow. He comes everyday, after finishing whatever duties he has in the Underworld, and then lets himself be ordered around by this particularly willful god of nature, asked to uproot this tree, or to weed around that plant. Always accommodating, always biddable, his eyes wide and round and much too innocent for a god that had been around for most of existence itself. 

Donghyuck perversely misses the chill, he thinks. It was easy to focus on the cold, and the goosebumps, and not this feeling of skin stretched too tight as Mark works silently by him, or shivering from air brushing past as he walked past, not from any chill, but from presence.

Mark is so careful not to touch. Donghyuck finds himself staring at the pale delicate fingers of his hands and wondering whether they were warm at all.

But the silence, gods, the silence. Donghyuck was no Yangyang, but he wasn’t that much different to him, and words itched in his throat everyday. It was torture, trying not to fill the blank air.

He gives up quite quickly.

“What prompted you to try and grow a garden in this forsaken place,” Donghyuck grits out, struggling to keep a particular rose bush alive. It had thorns like needles, and the petals were like parchment paper, so delicate you could read through them. A Lure rose. They liked to take bloom but then they would die immediately, and suddenly, it was all a bit too much.

Mark seems to startle at the question, blinking slowly at the younger god. His throat works as he swallows, eyes catching onto Donghyuck’s, a startling bottomless black. His voice is quiet and a little sad. “The underworld is a pretty awful resting place,” he responds measuredly. “I was hoping to make it a little more welcoming.”

He laughs then, clear and gentle and sweet, and it’s like a shock running through every nerve. “I wasn’t very successful.”

Donghyuck works quietly again for awhile, silently trying to grapple with the overwhelming need to hear that laugh again. 

“Until you asked, I had forgotten why.” Mark’s voice is softer than flax, softer than cotton. “Time moves differently here, and it’s easy to forget things.”

It’s a property of the Underworld, Donghyuck knows. You don’t have to drink from the river Lethe to forget, it’s amnesiac effects gradually building as time goes past, even on gods apparently.

“Is that what you’re hoping for? That I forget to want to go back?”

He meets Mark’s eyes squarely, and he can recognise the flash of want, or need, in them before Mark blinks away. 

It’s that, maybe. Donghyuck can’t remember the last time he felt needed like this.

He grabs Mark’s hand, jerking him to the lure rose, wrapping his hand around one of the branches. His hand is warm, no, _it’s hot and burning_ , and Donghyuck wants to let go, scalded, but his pride doesn’t let him.

“If you want them to live, you have to convince them. Plants can be incredibly temperamental. They require constant care and validation.” He lets go and leans back away from Mark, a little. This is as close as they've been since Mark first brought him down. He radiates heat now, it’s like being next to Jisung’s forge. It’s... heady.

(Donghyuck misses the chill.)

“How do you convince them to live?” Mark asks, voice a little hoarse. The set of his shoulders and back are a little stiff, and Donghyuck would laugh at it, if he wasn’t feeling similarly. Like teetering on the edge of a precipice. 

“Flattery, usually.” Donghyuck follows the line of his profile, the gentle sloping nose, only centimeters away from his own. “We like to sing to them, sometimes.” 

It’s the thought of his father that has him drawing back finally, guilt pooling in his chest. He hasn’t thought of his father in days.

“I’ll work on the pomegranate tree,” and he can’t meet Mark’s gaze, finally walking away.

He can still feel it though, the sensation of butterflies fluttering across his back. He’s growing accustomed to it. 

It’s almost brutally simple. He begins with the wheat and the corn, then moves on to the figs and the cherries, uprooting them one by one. 

He has trouble with the olives. They were one of the first trees he had created, the life blood of the people who worshipped him. He destroys it, anyway. 

The silver-green of Mount Olympus turns to ash white overnight. 

Taeyong tries to make him reconsider. 

“The _Almighty_. Can you bring me back my son from the Underworld?” Doyoung asks sharply, already knowing the answer

Taeyong’s mouth twists, and he leaves.

The mortals start dying of course. And maybe there is some guilt, a kernel of shame, as he watches them starve to death as winter begins for the first time in the world. 

No matter. He has a war to wage with the Lord of the Death.

It’s the pomegranate tree. It’s a stubborn thing, refusing to bloom then refusing to fruit, hardwooded and deaf to all coaxing, even from Mark. It’s the last plant in the garden, and Mark deeply cherishes how incredibly willful it is. 

(So yes, maybe Mark doesn’t plead that hard.)

Donghyuck loses all interest the rest of the garden, focusing down intently on this last recalcitrant tree. It’s up to Mark to walk through the rest of the garden every day, hands brushing past each one of them, reminding them of how much he needs them here, the trees and bushes and flowers and branches leaning towards him, shivering in pleasure. All the while, watching as Donghyuck tries to charm and flatter and cajole the pomegranate. It’s hard not to smile at the effort he is putting in.

Until he remembers all Donghyuck wishes to do is leave. Then he stops smiling.

And Mark thinks, _time moves differently in the Underworld_ but never this fast. He goes to whisper to the pomegranate at night, to whisper to it to not flower, to not fruit, but he remembers the way Donghyuck smiled at it earlier and he finds that he can’t.

There’s a closed bud on one of the branches. Donghyuck coos at it, patting the trunk of the tree admiringly, and Mark can feel the end nearing. 

Donghyuck’s hair is almost platinum now, cool and silver. His skin is silver-toned too, and as breathtaking as he looks, Mark can’t help but remember tawny-golden hair and warm-bronzed skin, and find himself dreaming of mouthing over the latter. 

(He wakes up in a sweat, courtesy of Ten’s gift, yells out at Jungwoo to _fuck off_ , mellow delighted laughter echoing and fading around his bedroom walls.)

He walks over to inspect the bud over Donghyuck’s shoulder, a sudden urge to be close overriding his nerves, and he can feel Donghyuck stiffen imperceptibly.

He smells like the forest, lush and dry at the same time, intangibly green and new. Mark’s hand itches to brush his hair over his ear, draw it down his neck, but he can’t. He can’t.

(Not when the souls of the dead coming through multiply every day. Not when he can’t bear to watch Donghyuck grow colder and paler every passing minute. Not when Mark was never going to keep him here, despite everything he had said. 

It was humbling to realise that he could still lie to himself.)

“You should sing to it, if you really do want to go home,” Mark says instead, something in his chest constricting to an impossible point. He ignores it, and instead turns his head to meet Donghyuck’s incredulous gaze.

The expression on his face is so surprised, so taken aback, that Mark can’t stop the smile from breaking out despite everything. Donghyuck’s gaze flickers down to his lips, and Mark can see a flash of something dark in his eyes. He finds himself leaning forward.

Donghyuck’s eyes look up to his eyes again and they seem a bit hazy. Or maybe it was the pale twilight of the Underworld making them look that way. “Maybe I should,” Donghyuck threatens, tilting his head just slightly, leaning just ever so slightly forward, and Mark feels his breath catch in his throat. 

“Your father has lost his damn mind,” Ten’s voice calls out behind them. 

They jump apart, the only indication of what they were about to do being the raging flush on their faces, that Ten eyes suspiciously.

It takes a second for Donghyuck to process the words. “What do you mean?”

Ten exhales angrily. “He’s destroying your siblings. The mortals are dying from famine because your father has decided nothing needs to live whilst you are down here, in the Underworld.”

Donghyuck closes his eyes, and hisses. “Idiot.”

Mark watches Donghyuck’s face it works through a number of different emotions, resolution finally settling over. He preempts it, smiling slightly as he reaches out to lightly grasp Donghyuck’s hand. 

“I think it’s time for you to go back,” he says, unable to stop himself from gently toying with the hand between his own. He wants to kiss his wrist, or drag his hand up to his cheek, kiss his palm. But he doesn’t.

Donghyuck is silent. It’s only when Mark looks up that he sees the look in his eyes, uncertain, slightly lost. “The pomegranate…” 

“It’s grown well, Donghyuck,” Ten calls out, and it startles them both into looking at the tree, and _gods,_ but it has, branches heavy with ruby red fruit, in fact the entire garden was blooming and lush, and Mark marvels at the deepening pink on Donghyuck’s cheeks, and he realises-

No matter.

“We should go,” Mark says abruptly, desperately trying not to clench his jaw. His grip on Donghyuck’s hands tighten, however, but Donghyuck grips his hand just as tightly back.

Their journey back to the world of the living is as silent as the journey was down. Taeil watches them balefully, _pitying_ , as he crosses the Styx, shaking his head. 

Neither of them look at each other. They don’t let go of each other’s hands, either.

The first ray of sunlight hitting Donghyuck’s eyes is overwhelming, and Mark watches as he sneezes and coughs, and he wants to laugh but also, also-

He gives in. 

He reaches out, and finally cups his face gently, thumb rubbing across cheekbones, and Donghyuck’s eyes shutter. The sun is already heating up Donghyuck’s face, and it’s a little hard to watch the tawny glow settle back in.

(Maybe Mark doesn’t like it after all.)

He doesn’t mean the kiss to be bruising, or to lick into Donghyuck’s gasping mouth, or even to pull him so close, so tightly, that it’s hard to breathe. Donghyuck doesn’t seem to mind. His hand grasps at Mark’s neck, and drags his teeth at Mark’s lower lip, and it takes everything in Mark not to pull him back down with him.

Fuck Doyoung. Fuck the mortals. Fuck everyone but Donghyuck and himself, in this clearing, right now, surrounded by dead leaves on dead trees.

This was a mistake. He breaks away from Donghyuck, but Donghyuck doesn’t let go of his collar, doesn’t let Mark pull away, and they lean their foreheads together, panting.

He pulls out the pomegranate from his pocket, and pulls off Donghyuck’s hands around his neck so he can clasp them around it. Donghyuck looks down at the fruit, eyes questioning, and Mark can’t help himself from pressing another quick kiss to his pouting lips. 

He hopes Donghyuck understands. 

“Something to remember me by,” he whispers, smiling, but it’s not particularly funny. Donghyuck’s lips press together tightly, and Mark can’t help but kiss him again, a little longer, a little softer and then he pulls away, finally.

Donghyuck’s eyes are beseeching. “Mark,” he whispers. 

Mark shakes his head slightly, mouth curled up at the corners and then he is gone. 

Donghyuck is left standing in the clearing alone, staring down at the pomegranate in his hands.

Red as heart’s blood. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway I don't mean for birth secrets and intrigue, oh my!, but I just love fucked up parental situations, you know?  
> [twt](https://twitter.com/hyucklesberry)/[cc](https://curiouscat.me/hyucklesberry)


	3. heart's blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd again, i'm a bit delirious and sick so excuse any major errors!

Donghyuck’s short childhood was precious. 

Doyoung had sprung out, full-fledged, from his father as did many of his siblings. Even the younger gods has similar origins; Jaemin came from the waves, Xiaojun born of a splitting headache. 

The process of making new gods was different every time, some born of necessity or a surge of energy and probability, mortal needs and desire. And others were brought into being, some just how mortals would make more of themselves, others by a simple wish.

Doyoung had wished. Desperately. And he had made Donghyuck, although the boy had never been exactly what Doyoung had wished for.

Childhood in gods was rare and precious. Doyoung guarded his time with Donghyuck’s preciously, the boy only remaining a _boy_ for a short while, babbling turning into eloquent speech much too fast, much too soon. 

Kun had come to visit, one of the few who were allowed (Doyoung would not turn away a blessing from the God of the hearth). He had turned to Doyoung, the set of his brows somewhat severe, but his eyes were understanding. He had held Doyoung’s hand, “He’ll grow up soon, they always do,” but it sounded like a warning in Doyoung’s ears, _he’ll grow out of you_. He desperately wanted to shake off his brother’s hand but what if it had made the words true? So he sat there, frozen, both of them watching as Donghyuck crawled, pulling master plants out by their roots, wrecking innocent devastation.

He would grow up soon to wreck not-so-innocent devastation. But that was okay, still. As much as he would grow, Doyoung took comfort knowing he was _his_ child, first and foremost. No matter who he entangled with, no matter his friends’ stealing him away on their antics.

He was a child of the earth, a child of nature, his child. 

_He always came back_ , Doyoung thought as he took his son’s now pallid face into his shaking hands, _finally_ , enfolding him into his arms. _He was back_.

  
  


“You’re different now,” Renjun supplies, eyes narrowing over the cup of wine in his hand, moon brightly illuminating his features. He leans closer to Donghyuck, eyes picking over something on his face it appears, but Donghyuck can’t bring himself to care, instead sipping from his own cup and not bothering to reply. Renjun doesn’t seem to expect one anyway, finally snorting before he turned back to face the rest of the party.

It was a big one. Doyoung had been so ecstatic about his return that he had thrown the biggest celebration yet, allowing leaves to begin to bloom again on the olives on Olympus, the silver green blooming over the mountain again signifying the end of what the mortals had begun to call winter. Donghyuck doesn’t know what this new season would be called, the season of chill growing warm. He is reminded of a shy, awkward smile blooming across a face that had grown unaccustomed to joy, and his hands tighten on his cup.

A hand comes up to brush his still silver hair off his forehead, a face being crooked into his shoulder from the back and it’s enough to distract him, so Donghyuck feels a little thankful to Jaemin even as he softly elbows the other in the stomach, but not enough to push him away.

“Ow,” Jaemin exclaims right into his ear as he settles himself around Donghyuck more comfortably, “I missed you too. Loving this colour by the way, even if Chenle is annoyed at how long it’s taking to fade, even in his presence.”

Donghyuck finds himself leaning back despite himself anyway ( _it had been so long since he had been held_ ). “I like it too,” he says and he hopes his tone is steady.

Maybe not. He can feel Jaemin grow still behind him. It’s Renjun who actually states it out loud though, tone incredulous. “You can’t have seriously wanted to _stay_?”

Donghyuck feels his heart beat near out of his chest, because he didn’t, but he did. And it was so confusing. “I don’t know,” he says finally. Jaemin just hums in response leaving a kiss on Donghyuck’s shoulder, and it sounds _knowing_ , his hands rubbing circles into his stomach

(Jaemin would _know_ , Donghyuck realises later. This is his domain, after all.)

Donghyuck disentangles himself, silently and walks away, and he doesn’t need to look back to know the glance that his friends exchange. 

  
  
  


“He dreams of you.” Mark doesn’t bother replying to Jungwoo, just nodding shortly, as he tends to the pomegranate. It was a finicky thing, drooping almost immediately as Donghyuck left, and Mark had to fight it for it to remain alive. It was not something he was accustomed too, as the Lord of Death. But it held on. With Mark’s efforts, it held.

Mark didn’t know why he continued. He couldn’t let go of false hope, and Jungwoo couldn’t help but feed it to him either. They were both fools.

Jungwoo sighs at Mark’s lack of real response. “He hid the pomegranate, you know,” and that has Mark still. 

“He probably doesn’t know what it means,” Mark says after a little pause. 

Jungwoo laughs. “I understand he’s a little shallow, sweet, but did he ever give you the impression he was particularly stupid?”

Mark chokes out a laugh despite himself, and smiles as he settles back down on the grass. Grass in the underworld. He thinks of all the things Donghyuck had changed in his time here and it’s a hard ask to hope for more, his smile turning wry.

Jungwoo seems to understand, and he pats his shoulder, and Mark reaches up to grab the hand in thanks before it turns into sand as he leaves.

  
  


Donghyuck learns Ten isn’t particularly welcome in their garden when Doyoung nearly rips apart the new variety of rose he had been working on when he asks to invite him to their home. Which is why he sends the invitation straight away, and he’s happy to note that Ten appears at the gate not even a day after.

“Ten,” Donghyuck laughs, reaching out to grasp the other’s hand in greeting, somewhat gleefully noticing the way the plants in the garden tremble at Doyoung’s increasing ire. Ten trills in laughter back, and he’s clearly aware of Doyoung’s feelings too, evident by the way his eyes crease up.

Doyoung ends up leaving, silently fuming, and Donghyuck almost feels bad about how little guilt he feels. He doesn’t understand it, not exactly, why he had been so irritable with his father since he had come back, but he’s comfortable not examining it too closely. Ten appears to relax a little though once Doyoung leaves, and that’s when Donghyuck finally feels a hint of sheepishness.

They sit down talking pleasantries and drinking sweet nectar, and Donghyuck finds himself foolishly avoiding the topic that he invited the other to talk about. 

Ten takes pity on him, thankfully. “Mark is doing well, by the way,” Ten says, hint of a smirk on his lips as he circles the rim of his cup with a finger. “The garden is still in full bloom, and growing bigger, somehow.”

Donghyuck finds himself without a response, a dozen words coming to his mouth before vanishing. He takes a sip in response and swallows, the nectar now a little bittersweet.

Then- “Could you tell me about the pomegranate?”

Ten’s eyes shadow, and his mouth flattens a little. “Your father would be better to talk to you about that,’ he says without rancour, and he straightens somewhat in his chair. 

“I’m having trouble talking to him,” Donghyuck admits readily, thinking of the pomegranate hidden away in his room. He doesn’t know why he kept it a secret, or why he kept it all, it was just that-

“Doyoung has a hard time understanding anything that doesn’t fit into what he wants of people,” Ten says, and there is a hint of sourness there. Donghyuck feels something unknot in his chest that he hadn’t realised he had held tight, but it was true. Doyoung wouldn’t understand how he felt and he could sense for the first time in a long time how deep the chasm was between him and his father, as narrow as the gap appears at first glance. It was in the way Doyoung had held his face when he had got back, the way he hadn’t even registered the hesitancy, the way he had glanced back. 

It wasn’t for the first time he wished that he had been more like Jeno, as straightforward as him, as true to his essence. Donghyuck barely knew what his essence was, especially now.

“It was your father’s first funerary gift.” Ten’s voice startles Donghyuck out of his thoughts but Ten doesn’t appear to notice, lost in his own. “One of the first of his priestesses fell in love with him, desperately, back when we used to walk with the mortals. She prayed and wept and when he turned away from her, she took her knife and carved out her heart for him before she died. I think he was surprised by it more than anything. But he arranged her funeral procession, and took her heart and made the tree over her grave, seeds like drops of blood.” 

“What a horrifying story,” Donghyuck laughs drily, fidgeting uncomfortably in his seat.

Ten smiles pensively. “If I were to hazard a guess, your father meant for it to symbolize death and dedication. But the mortals? They went wild over the story, flocking to the grave to devour the fruit of eternal love and devotion,” he finishes, eyes narrowing much too perceptively at Donghyuck.

“Ah,” is all he can say in response, cheeks reddening, heart beating wildly, thinking of the way Mark had pressed it into his hands, and kissed him. He clears his throat, feeling overheated.

Ten laughs, and it’s mean and kind at the same time, and Donghyuck flushes again. 

“Your father ripped it out, of course, as soon as he heard that the mortals had taken the story differently than he had wanted them too,” Ten says, sitting back.

And it grows clear to Donghyuck why it had been so difficult to talk to his father, to meet his father’s gaze, over the last few days. He thought of the pomegranate, and maybe, maybe he had always known deep down the decision he would make. 

He looks up to see Ten smiling at him, and he thinks Ten knows. He smiles sadly back.

  
  


Donghyuck’s hair was golden again and Doyoung pauses to admire the rightness of it before he lightly brushes by the glowing curls as he walks back into the garden, the irritating pest that was Ten thankfully no longer in sight. Donghyuck’s hand reaches out to grab his hand before he can walk past and Doyoung stops, surprised.

“Oh, you’re finally talking to me again now, are you?” he asks, somewhat amused. He had always been a difficult child but that had never been an issue. Truth was that Doyoung was as delighted by his nature as much as it would exasperate him in equal measure. Donghyuck made him laugh, more than anyone he had ever known. He had missed the teasing, his smile fading a little thinking about the distance between them that had sprung up since his time below.

His smile fades further as he sees the serious look on his son’s face. _It doesn’t suit him_ , Doyoung thinks, and he sits down on the other side of the table in concern. Donghyuck says nothing, playing with Doyoung’s fingers and Doyoung opens his mouth to ask him what was wrong when he notices _it_. 

Broken apart, resting on the table, ruby seeds spilling out, and it’s a minute before he realises what he’s seeing.

“Where did you get that?” Doyoung whispers, stunned.

Donghyuck doesn’t say anything, only wrapping his hands around Doyoung’s longer, slender fingers, and Doyoung remembers fleetingly when that used to bring them both comfort, once. He looks into his son’s eyes and sees the answer there, and Kun had warned him once about this. 

_He’ll grow out of you._

He shakily pulls his hand away, walking up to the edge of the garden, wrapping his arms tight around himself, willing himself to breathe. Petals begin falling from now drooping flowers, leaves turning red and gold then brown, and they fall too. And then Donghyuck’s arms come around him, resting his head on his back.

“Six seeds. Six months down there, six months up here with you,” he whispers softly. There’s an unsaid apology in his voice that makes Doyoung take in a deep, shaky breath.

Doyoung breaks out of the embrace carefully before turning around to hug Donghyuck properly, tucking his head under his chin, as he used to, always. If his hands are trembling, neither of them take note of it. 

“If that’s what you wish, my son,” he says into Donghyuck’s curls, pressing a kiss into his crown, before walking away.

  
  


It’s awful, the way back down. It doesn’t help that Yangyang is an awful guide, constantly yapping on about something or another, but it feels like the journey is pushing back against them both somehow without the presence of Mark. And his hands won’t stop trembling, and he has to tuck them into his crossed arms as the temperature drops as they take each step further.

It feels like forever ago, when Jaemin, Renjun and Jeno had pulled him for a last hug. _You can visit me down there you know_ , he had said, _I’ll be back in six months_. 

_Of course,_ Renjun had said as he had kissed him on the cheek, ruefully shaking his head. _It’s just different now_.

They finally reach the Styx, and it is some time before they see the lamp cut through the fog, signalling Taeil’s approach. Yangyang smiles at him, a little tightly, before hugging him close. He murmurs a _good luck_ and runs back up, and Donghyuck has to wonder why all his friends seem to be treating like he’s passing away before he remembers he willingly chose to be with the Lord of Death for half of the rest of his life. 

(Jaemin had whispered _blessings, my sweet,_ before kissing his forehead in goodbye, and Donghyuck held his words to his chest. He would need it.)

Taeil grins to see him waiting at the bank, and Donghyuck’s somewhat embarrassed by it, as welcome as it looks on the boat-keeper’s face. He holds out his hand to Donghyuck, but then pulls away when Donghyuck reaches out. “Payment?” He asks loftily, and Donghyuck finds himself laughing despite himself.

He brings out one half of the pomegranate, and Taeil pretends to eye it with suspicion, and it’s hard not to roll his eyes at that, so Donghyuck does. “Take it up with Mark, if you have any issues,” he says drily.

Taeil smiles brightly at that. “I will,” he winks, and pulls Donghyuck onto the boat. 

  
  


Mark doesn’t realise it straight away. It’s the ivy on his desk that gives him a hint, starting to shake and shiver, and then he understands. He finds himself sprinting down to the garden, half expecting to see his figure as use to be, kneeling in and amongst the trees and bushes, but the garden is empty. They’re all shivering, _yearning_ , but he’s nowhere in sight.

And then he remembers the godawful hound Ten brought him to guard the entrance to the Underworld and his heart drops.

It’s with dread that he runs into the cavern housing Cerberus, expecting to find blood and violence, only to be faced with the idiot dog slobbering over Donghyuck, all three heads preening under his attention. The one head who wasn’t being patted turns around to see his master, panting, tongue lolling, and that’s what prompts Donghyuck to look at Mark finally. 

He’s gold, _gold again_ , warm and shining so brightly Mark felt a twinge of guilt for ever bringing someone like this down here, to be with him, but then he smiles at Mark and it’s so _fond_. Mark can feel the warmth everywhere, and he thinks he doesn’t really need Ten’s charm anymore.

“Come here,” he says, nodding to Mark, “I don’t have enough hands to pet him,” he _pouts._

Mark inhales unsteadily, and makes his way over and begins to pet the neglected head. 

“Hi,” Donghyuck says, smiling.

“Hi,” Mark says back, and he’s smiling too, grinning maybe.

One of the heads huffs, maybe in amusement, and it’s enough to make Mark break, trying not to laugh as he pulls Donghyuck out of the cavern, and then they’re both laughing as they run down, back to the garden.

Plants are vain, needy creatures. Mark hadn’t expected to compete for Donghyuck’s attention, but compete he did, each flower and branch and leaf, shivering and preening for Donghyuck to brush by them, notice them. Donghyuck just smiles as he does, but he doesn’t let go of his hand, not once, and maybe that’s enough-

No, it’s not. He loses patience, tugging on Donghyuck’s arm, making him stumble into his own arms but, yes, that was the aim of it. It’s delicate the way Mark wraps his arms around him, so delicate, like the dust floating in a pane of sunlight, and it's been so long since Mark has wanted sunlight but if he closes his eyes the glow from Donghyuck through the delicate leaves of his eyelids reminds him of it. 

He opens his eyes to see that Donghyuck watching him carefully, a small smile playing across his lips, and his hand comes up to lightly touch Mark’s own. He doesn’t do anything but try to still his beating heart. 

“The pomegranate was more bitter than I had expected,” he says, as Mark inhales sharply, “Have you tried it?”

Mark finds himself wordless as he shakes his head, not taking his eyes off the golden blonde head as Donghyuck reaches to pull the pomegranate out from his pocket. He plucks out seeds carefully, and the light in his eyes when he looks up is darker, deeper, as he taps a finger against Mark’s lips.

They open automatically (although Mark would have willed them to open anyway). He doesn’t look away as Donghyuck slips the seeds into his mouth, doesn’t look away from the look of pleasure in Donghyuck’s eyes as he watches Mark work his mouth around the seeds, doesn’t look away as Donghyuck curls his hand around his neck, pulling him closer.

“Six seeds for you, too. Six months a year, up there, with them and six months down here with you,” he says, smiling shakily, and he can’t look at Mark in the eye anymore but that’s fine. He doesn’t need to.

Their second kiss is different. It’s deliberate, and soft and slow and Mark doesn’t have all the time in the world ( _or perhaps he does_ ) but he has six months. Six months to learn how to tell him that he hadn’t been sure love was in Death’s essence but that’s all he could feel now, everyday, thinking of him. That he had forgotten what it was like to be held, but he’s not sure how he could ever forget being held by _him_. That he could feel his nature, changing, some fundamental alchemy simply from his presence, and he wants to know Donghyuck can feel that too. 

But for now, he puts that into the kiss. And when Donghyuck parts his mouth and gasps when he tastes the pomegranate on his tongue, pulling Mark closer, Mark thinks maybe he won’t need to say it. 

(He learns to, anyway.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm marking this finished bc the narrative is closed but i may come back and put some of the borderline sexy times/slash general couple cuteness that i ended up cutting out... still keeping it M bc some of the imagery is a bit idk gory still. 
> 
> anyway I hope you liked my retelling of persephone/hades.... i played around with a lot of things but i wanted to do a retelling that kept agency and how sweet i always found the myth. also i enjoyed some of the very very minor lore building for this a lot more than i imagined so this was cute for me.  
> anyway .... hope you enjoyed!!!
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/hyucklesberry)/[cc](https://curiouscat.me/hyucklesberry)


End file.
